by Alaric Bond
And the xebec was a valuable ship. Despite damage wreaked by the cutters' six pounders, she remained a fine craft and of a type particularly popular in that part of the Mediterranean. The Admiralty might have no use for her, but there would be more than enough private buyers keen to bid, as soon as she was presented at the prize court. Along with money due to them, the not inconsiderable sum their government were obliged to pay for men captured and vessels taken or destroyed, most of those aboard Prometheus knew they could expect a decent pay out, and were suitably buoyant.
In fact both Banks and Caulfield considered themselves lucky to have a particularly happy and healthy crew. Twelve men were lost in Franklin's cutter, and fifteen more since their last call at Gibraltar, both in action and to the usual wear and tear of shipboard life. But these had been more than made up for by those rescued from the xebec, which included many prime seamen and even a few former man-of-war hands. All were recovering as well as Butler and, as with him, it was hoped they would show their gratitude by marked enthusiasm, and a level of loyalty rarely seen in newbies.
The ship would be in harbour a month, or less, if the local dockyard mateys got a shake on. The weather might be terrible, but it would have been a lot worse off Toulon and, now they were safely put up in a British port, none could seriously believe the French would leave until the spring. And Christmas along with the New Year was coming – it would be 1804 and already seemed incredible to note the fresh century passing so quickly, although that only made the likelihood of an imminent and decisive battle the more real.
It was generally agreed the French must sail within the next twelve months. And, when they did, the British, along with a freshly serviced Prometheus, would be there to meet them. Even if both sides failed to attract further forces, it could only be a conclusive action. Were the Royal Navy successful it would signal an end to any plans Napoleon might have of dominating the seas. And if not, he would gain access to the Channel and invade England. But despite the odds, there were few aboard Prometheus who did not wish for battle, and none that considered any outcome other than victory. It was a habit established during the last war. Howe, Duncan, and now Nelson had seen them successful; the latter on more than one occasion. And with that same energetic Admiral as their current commander in chief, how could they fail?
* * *
“I was wondering what might be done about Butler,” King said softly to Caulfield. It was the end of the weekly meeting the first lieutenant held with all senior officers, and King had timed his comment so that most were either rising from the wardroom table, or had at least stopped paying attention.
“Butler?” Caulfield repeated, absent mindedly.
“The hand we took from the pirate xebec,” King reminded him.
“Ah yes. He were marked as a runner; whilst we were refitting previously, as I recall.” Caulfield's face cleared with the memory. “And originally pressed, or am I wrong?”
“When we commissioned,” King agreed. “In Tor Bay.”
“It is rare for a hand to desert after being aboard for a spell,” the first lieutenant reflected. “Were you aware of any discontent?”
The younger officer raised an eyebrow. As Butler's divisional officer, King was responsible for several hundred men, many of whom were there against their wishes. He happened to know the man quite well, however, and Caulfield was right; after the first six months of joining a ship, most had become sufficiently immersed in the culture and routine to stay until they were payed off – something that was especially so when in a foreign port, where the likelihood of returning to the home they craved was smaller.
“There was little troubling him out of the ordinary,” King replied at last. “He was reliable and being considered for promotion. From what I gather it were nothing more than a severe case of homesickness.”
Caulfield pursed his lips. “Good hands are hard to find,” he said as he pondered. “We were lucky in claiming what we did from that xebec, but are unlikely to be so again.”
“I would gauge him popular with the men,” King added hopefully. “And he did much to enable the pirate's capture...”
“And I suppose you feel punishing him for desertion would not go down well?” Caulfield gave a wry smile.
“I do not think it would serve any purpose,” King answered with obvious sincerity. “Nor would the sound flogging that must follow, were he sent for court martial.”
With the general shortage of manpower, the practice of hanging deserters was declining. But a group of dispassionate captains were quite likely to award a savage beating in cases like Butler's, and King was soft hearted enough to hope he would avoid such a fate.
“Of course, Butler would have missed quite a bit of prize money in his absence,” he pointed out as tactfully as possible.
“Prize money?” Caulfield questioned.
“There is that due for the coaster, and the liner we burned,” King continued. “We did not carry them back, but the Admiralty are obliged to pay an allowance even so. There would doubtless be a measure of head money to add as well.”
“And the xebec herself must raise a fair amount,” Caulfield agreed, warming to the idea. “Butler shall be owed no share of that, despite any assistance he or the other British may have given.”
“Perhaps that might appear to be punishment enough?” King suggested.
But Caulfield shook his head. “No, it will not do, Tom. I gather your meaning, but there has to be official acknowledgement,” he sighed. “No man can run from a ship without recognition of the fact. Even if lenient, we must be openly so. I shall bring it up with the captain at the next opportunity.”
King nodded but said no more; he was actually quite satisfied. Butler remained weak, but his seaman's lifestyle made him inherently healthy. He should recover before long and eventually resume normal duties. On reminding the first lieutenant of the offence, Caulfield may well have ordered Butler to be placed in bilboes and await court martial. An appearance at captain's defaulters could lead to the same conclusion of course, but King thought not. He hoped – in fact he was reasonably certain – Sir Richard would see sense and deal with the matter diplomatically. Possibly a spell without grog, maybe a token dozen at the gangway; Butler would soon be able to take that, and it would be seen by all as a reasonable outcome. In such circumstances, and with a popular member of the lower deck, anything more would be resented. And King had no wish to face the storms of a Mediterranean winter with a discontented crew.
* * *
“Very well, we shall start the final part of your examination.” The senior captain must have been sixty if he were a day yet, despite the wrinkled and weather beaten face, his vivid blue eyes held both life and energy and seemed to penetrate deep into Hunt's own. “Your ship is under stuns'ls with a quartering wind when the call goes out that a man is overboard; what are your actions?”
The younger officer's mouth opened for a full second before he spoke. But Hunt was prepared for just such a scenario, and his mind had been racing from the moment the board's president began to speak.
“I would see that an aid is thrown to him,” he said.
“An aid?” the elderly captain asked, curtly.
“Probably a hammock, sir,” Hunt replied. “Unless something more suitable were available.” It was common knowledge that a properly tied hammock would float for some while, and plenty were always to hand, packed into the side nettings. Hunt actually remembered an occasion when a hen coop, complete with occupants, was thrown, but this did not seem the correct time to mention it. “Then I should call hands to stations and put the helm down.”
There was no reaction from the granite face opposite; two other captains sat, one at either side, but it was the central, and clearly bloody minded officer that Hunt involuntarily focused on.
“The aft yards would be braced up and studding sail tacks and sheets let go.”
Still the same lack of response.
“Then, if a quarter boat were fitted, I would c
all for her crew; otherwise launch whatever craft is available the quickest.”
“And that would be a fine mess, were you in company,” the stern face informed him. “Amongst a fleet sailing in close order you would endanger both your ship, and any vessel following.”
Hunt was now every bit aback as his imaginary ship. “I was not told we were sailing as part of a fleet,” he replied, too surprised to feel embarrassed.
“He has the right of it, Sir Robert,” one of the captains informed the president hesitantly. “That was omitted.”
“And as it was, the answer served perfectly,” the other added, evidently pleased to have caught his colleague out.
The older man's eyes closed for a moment, and then he drew breath.
“If junior officers cannot summon the wit to ask a question, the Navy is doomed for certain,” he stated testily. Then the eyes opened again, and this time they held a more kindly air. “But so be it; grant him his commission, and may the Dear have mercy upon us.”
* * *
All aboard Prometheus had been pleased to reach Gibraltar, with her promise of shore leave and rest, and were surprised when their captain, usually the most affable of commanders, announced the regime that would have them back on station before the end of the year. The dockyard superintendent had predicted four weeks for the work to be complete, but privately allowed for five; however Banks was determined all would be done within three, and set every man involved working double tides to see it was.
Some jobs were finished relatively quickly; it took less than a morning with the sheer hulk to draw their fractured mizzen mast. The spar came out like an enormous bad tooth, to a murmur of approval from the watching band of boatswain's mates and topmen. The dockyard riggers were as efficient with its replacement: a fresh length of pale, jointed pine being lowered into position just as light was starting to fade. By noon on the following day the original top had been set up, and most shrouds were in place. It was then a reasonably routine task of setting up the top and topgallant masts, and rigging yards. By the time the more subtle work needed to her hull and superstructure was halfway through, Prometheus already boasted a healthy tophamper and was ready to face the worst a Mediterranean winter could throw at her.
And the rest of the repairs, though not as dramatic, were also attended to with relative speed. Fresh wood was let in to replace the shattered bulwarks and scantlings, and the lower wales were given an extra coat of marine paint for good measure. Most of the internal work needed paying or painting as well, although the humid winter air meant each took an age to dry. For upwards of a week Prometheus was filled with the pungent smell of linseed, while her delicate surfaces attracted dust to the consternation of every officer from the first lieutenant downwards. But despite this, all major work was completed within twenty-three days of their first sighting the Rock; an incredible feat when compared to that expected of the average English dockyard and, however reluctant some members of her crew might be, the ship was subsequently pronounced fit to return to duty.
Then came the familiar loading with wood, powder, and other provisions. In their usual perverse way, the victualling yard had received fresh supplies of candles and beeswax, but were now almost entirely lacking in canvas, causing the sailmaker and his team to re-cut their second spare main course into a serviceable fore topsail, which also provided material for the several replacement hammocks that were required. Then Prometheus was truly ready and, despite muttered complaints from all stations, scheduled to set sail little more than a week before Christmas.
It had been a busy period and, as countless other minor jobs were still outstanding, was doomed to remain so until the last minute. So less important tasks, such as the collection of officers' laundry, and the final drawing up of the watch bill, were left until the day before they were due to leave. And it was during those final hours that Flint's absence became apparent.
“Adams is his divisional mid,” King told the captain when he and Caulfield were offering the new duty schedule for approval. “He was present at the last muster, and marked so this morning, though the lad did not see him personally.”
“Did he not?” Banks queried testily. There were a veritable pile of returns and other requests to authorize; he could not spend a great deal of time on a single missing seaman, especially one known to be ill, who would undoubtedly be sent ashore when discovered. But of late Banks found any disruption in official routine annoying, certainly far more than when he had commanded smaller ships. This was possibly a side effect of added responsibility, or maybe his temperament was changing. Or perhaps he was simply getting old. “Then why was Flint marked as present?” he asked crisply.
King had no answer and Caulfield remained equally mute; Adams was undoubtedly at fault, although both officers could understand why he had not looked into the man's disappearance more closely.
“Instigate a full ship search,” Banks told them wearily. “And have the master-at-arms report to me personally. I want Flint found and escorted to the shore hospital by the end of tomorrow's morning watch, or a reliable report that he has already gone and will not be returning.”
King agreed readily enough and both men left the captain to more pressing tasks but, as the following dawn broke on a ship amid the final confusion of putting to sea, there was still no sign or news of Flint.
“We may mark him as run,” Caulfield said doubtfully, when King brought the matter to his attention in the more informal setting of an empty poop deck. “But, as he was to be discharged, it would seem a bad end to any career.”
“And he would lose what wages he were entitled to,” King agreed. “Not to mention prize and head money.”
Flint's disappearance was actually growing from being mildly irritating to a true annoyance, yet King remained concerned that someone he had sailed with for much of his working life should apparently leave the ship without so much as a backward glance. If Caulfield authorised an 'R' to be placed against his name, Flint would become a wanted man and, ill or not, must then be pursued and face punishment.
“I think we should let the matter rest,” Caulfield said suddenly. The two had been steadily pacing the deck, and King stopped and looked round in astonishment. “He may have gone ashore or, as I suspect, could be concealed within the ship,” the first lieutenant continued, “but it will serve little purpose if we disrupt routine further by seeking him out.”
There was no doubting the logic, but it still came as a surprise to King.
“The man is ill and expected to die,” Caulfield sighed, as they began to walk again. “None of us can predict how we might behave in such circumstances. Whatever has become of him is likely to be the result of his own choice, and we should allow him to make it without further interruption.”
King remained quiet, although it was not the matter of a missing seaman that filled his thoughts. There were times when Caulfield was the strict disciplinarian, a true stickler for duty and procedure such as anyone might expect of an executive officer. And times, such as now, when a far softer side was revealed. King had noticed the occasions to have been less frequent of late; certainly since he had taken on his responsibilities in a line-of-battleship. But he still found it oddly reassuring to note his friend retained an element of compassion.
“Should I delay in taking any action at all, then?” King finally asked.
“I believe so,” Caulfield told him, as they reached the taffrail and turned. “But a word to the wise; it would be better if the captain is not reminded of the incident.”
A second surprise, and King waited for the first lieutenant to continue with interest.
“Sir Richard has become a trifle conscientious of late,” Caulfield had not started to walk, and his voice was lowered to the point where it could barely be heard, even by King. “Perhaps you may have noticed, but he appears to be playing by the rules, and the people are growing discontented. I have tried to speak with him, but he will have none of it.”
That was undoubtedly t
he truth. All had been looking forward to a spell in harbour, although the stop at Gibraltar had proved anything but a rest. No shore leave was granted and now they would be setting off, into the very worst of the winter weather, King and every officer aboard was worried about a lowering of morale.
“I am also concerned about how he will react to Butler.”
“You are thinking he may deal harshly with the man?” King asked. They had begun to pace once more and were just nearing the open skylight above Banks' quarters.
“It is a possibility,” Caulfield confirmed, although this time his words were spoken far louder and with almost studied clarity. “And Sir Richard would be within his rights, of course. Desertion is surely an offence, whatever the circumstances. But in Butler's case a severe punishment would not be taken well.”
“Would it not?” King asked with equal volume. He had initially been confused by the first lieutenant's behaviour but, now that he understood the reason, was more than prepared to support it.
“No, the very reverse,” Caulfield replied in the same strident tone, while adding an elaborate wink to King for good measure. “If Butler is given more than twelve strikes it will lower morale considerably, and the ship shall undoubtedly end up the loser. But then I have known the captain a good many years, and respect his judgement greatly. He always has the overall good of the men in mind, and I cannot believe he would order an extreme punishment.”
Chapter Eighteen
It was the first fellowship meeting since the ship set sail, and the first since Franklin had been returned to the aft cockpit after failing his examination board so ignominiously. Furthermore, the theme for that day was forgiveness and, even ignoring his recent change of circumstances, it was a subject Franklin found particularly challenging.